


Addiction

by Annide



Series: Filing The Holes [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Pain, Past Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Recovery, Relapsing, Triggers, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 13:18:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1348837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annide/pseuds/Annide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock relapses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Addiction

It starts slowly and innocently. You don’t even realise it at first. You hurt and you take something that’ll help you sleep, that’ll help take the pain away. You think nothing of it. It’s just a small thing. It’s just this once. And then, maybe you don’t do that again for a long time. But one day, you do it again. You take something that’ll make you forget how you feel, something that’ll numb the pain for a little while. And it’s nothing at first. It just happens every once in a while, there is no need for concern. But, inevitably, you end up leaving less and less time in between, less and less time for pain to come back. Everything else stops to matter. All you care about is keeping the pain away.

The unbearable pain. Maybe you know what caused it, maybe you don’t. All you know is you’re hurting and you can’t handle it anymore. All you want is to escape it. Escape the endless feeling that's making you think ripping your heart out would make you feel better. You clutch to it, but you can’t hold it, you can’t do anything to make it stop hurting. So you take something to escape from it. And this thing becomes an important part of you. It’s what makes you keep going. It’s how you stay alive. You don’t even see what it’s doing to you. You just know you need it, to keep the pain away.

Your friends worry. They see how this thing is slowly making you disappear. You aren’t really you anymore. The pain broke you and this thing is just fading the remains. Some of your friends can’t stand to see you like this and they leave. Some keep a safe distance, waiting and hoping that you simply need time and that, someday, you won’t feel that much pain and you’ll start needing this thing less and less until you finally stop taking it altogether. And then, there are those friends who just won’t give up on you. They’ll just keep trying to make you stop, keep trying to make you feel better, keep trying to get you to do things like going out and having fun. Friends who stand so close to you that they get hurt.

Sometimes, you can see them properly enough to notice the signs that they’re breaking, slowly. And you feel bad, and you wish they would just leave you alone. You wish they’d understand there is nothing they can do for you, it’s too late, you’re too far gone. Sometimes, it feels like this all might finally kill you. Sometimes it scares you. But sometimes you wish it did. You wish death would take you and make it all stop.

And sometimes there is no pain to begin with. Sometimes you just don’t feel anything at all and that’s the problem. Sometimes you get tired of the numbness, or of that shell you built to protect yourself from getting hurt. And you would do anything just to feel something. Feel anything at all. And you take something, and at first it works. You finally feel something. But when the effects go away, the numbness just weighs more on you. And you take it again. And again.

And you can’t stop. Without meaning to, without even realising it, you just created yourself a need. And this need is slowly killing you and bringing your closest friends and family members down with you. It breaks their heart to see you, and it breaks your heart to see them like this. Yet you can’t seem to be able to stop. You don't really want to, you just want them to stop suffering. You don't want to stop taking this thing, you depend on it to survive. And that is all that you're doing. Surviving. You are not alive anymore, not really. You're just sort of, there, doing everything you can to keep the pain away. Away from you. Possibly away from everyone around you. You build yourself a wall around you, an illusion for others. So that they don't see the whole of it.

But one day, maybe something happens, maybe you get a little too close to death, maybe that friend you really can’t stand to lose is giving up on you. Something happens and you realise it’s gone too far. You still can’t figure out how to stop this, but now you actually want to help yourself. So instead of people trying to force you to get better, finally, finally, you go to them, and you ask for their help. It makes them happy, even if it’ll take time, even if there is still a long way to go. It doesn't matter how hard it'll be. You want to fight and, finally, their efforts will go somewhere.

And you get help, you manage to stop, finally. But now, you learn, begins the real fight. The one that will keep going on for the rest of your life. Recovery and not relapsing. It is hard at first, but eventually, you get the hang of it, it becomes natural, a new habit. And you think it’s over. You don’t have cravings of it anymore, you think it’ll be fine and you don’t have to worry about it. Until the first trigger appears. Out of nowhere. You see or hear something, and suddenly, you miss it, you want it, you need it. You fight it though, and it’s hard, but you do it. And now you know, you know it’s never over, you know there’ll be more triggers like this that’ll make you want that thing again. Relapse is always a close possibility.

The struggle is always there and Sherlock almost relapsed several times. The two years he spent away from London, hiding, pretending to be dead, were particularly hard for him. Still, he made it through. Realising John had moved on hurt but it didn’t make it harder, because John was happy, and that’s all that mattered. Sherlock came close to relapsing after the wedding. When he realised Mary was pregnant and there wouldn’t be place for him in John’s life anymore. But Moriarty was waiting for him when he came back to 221B early in the evening and he let himself find comfort in the arms of the criminal.

Somehow he let himself rely on Jim. They'd found him some place to stay in London, where no one would come looking for him. Moriarty would be safe there and he could stay close to Sherlock. And the detective started spending a lot of time there with him. It was convenient too because it was close to this decaying house where junkies went, and Sherlock hung out in there also, trying to look like one of them, so Magnussen wouldn't take him seriously and underestimate him.

This really wasn't the best place for a recovering addict to be, and this was the reason Sherlock didn't tell anyone about it. He didn't want his friends to be alarmed by this, to start worrying. But Jim understood. He always did. He even accompanied the detective there every once in a while.

It happened maybe two weeks after the wedding. The afternoon had ended a little while ago already. Dinner time had passed and Moriarty was still waiting for Sherlock to show up. Which was unusual. They always ate together. Jim texted him to see if maybe the detective had some unexpected plans. No answer. That was even more strange. But he knew where to look. He went to the junky house, sincerely hoping he wouldn't find Sherlock there.

"Shezza? Are you here?"

"Jim?"

Moriarty's heart sank. There was only one explanation left. And sure enough, when he'd finally made his way to the detective, the man was high.

"Shezza, what have you done?"

Sherlock clung to him and he helped him to his feet. Jim half-carried him back to his place and put him down on the couch while he started making tea. It was a small flat. The kitchen was part of the living room which was also used as a bedroom. Moriarty didn't have any furniture other than that old couch he slept on, in the middle of the room. But it was good enough, and it was close to Sherlock's current workplace.

Jim sat on the floor, his back resting on the front of the couch, and handed the detective a cup of tea before starting to drink his own. He closed his eyes. What now? What was he supposed to do? He just stayed there, pondering the question, waiting for the tea to maybe bring Sherlock down from his high. He felt a hand running through his hair and leaned into the touch.

"Do you think I could stay here tonight?"

"Why would you want to spend the night in this hole?"

"I shouldn't be alone. I don't want to be. Please? We can both fit on this couch."

"You're high, Shezza."

"Will you just shut up and join me? And stop calling me that."

Jim took both of their empty cups and brought them to the sink. He then went back to Sherlock, cosied up with him and pulled the blanket from the top of the couch onto them. He had to lie on the detective, his face in the warmth of Sherlock's neck, their legs intertwining, but it was true : they could both fit on the couch, and be comfortable.

"Won't Mrs Hudson wonder where you are?"

"No, she'll think I'm working or at Janine's."

This Janine was pretty useful. Her existence gave Sherlock another good excuse for being out of the flat and her affection for the detective would help him in his fight against Magnussen. Moriarty understood that completely. He didn't feel any jealousy toward the fake girlfriend. She was only there to serve a purpose, Sherlock didn't have any feelings for her. Jim could only ever be jealous of John Watson, who was now married and not really a threat anymore, though Sherlock wasn't entirely over him. But right this moment, those weeks since the wedding and those hard times to come, Jim was the one Sherlock needed, the one he wanted, and the criminal could only enjoy being finally loved back.

After that night, Moriarty would not let Sherlock go to the junky house alone anymore. He made sure every time the detective was only hanging around there, pretending to have a drug habit and not actually have one. But Sherlock would still go by himself, without telling him about it and Jim would find him there later. He'd bring the high man back to his place and take care of him. And when he lay on a sleeping Sherlock, he'd spend hours wondering how he could possibly make him feel better, take his pain away so he wouldn't take drugs again. After the detective left, Jim would yell out his suffering, cursing John Watson for breaking an extraordinary man such as Sherlock Holmes, and himself for being partly responsible for it. The guilt strangled him and he often wished he had something to distract him from it when he was alone. And somehow he found himself starting to imagine his return from the dead.


End file.
